


Boy's gotta learn

by nerdinessboundaries



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Buried Alive, John Winchester Being an Asshole, Other, POV John Winchester, Young Winchesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-09 19:53:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1150121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdinessboundaries/pseuds/nerdinessboundaries
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is plagued by nightmares that push him into teaching his sons a lesson in staying alive. (I'd just finished John's Journal when I wrote this, hence, John's POV.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boy's gotta learn

It's been three weeks since the first nightmare. I tried to ignore it but it's hard when you wake up in a cold sweat because you've just seen your son buried alive.

That hovering feeling, the one I've felt before, is thick in the air when I jolt awake, panting. It was Dean, all of ten years old, looking exactly the same as he does now all curled up beside Sam in the hotel bed, but he was in a box, a casket and it was dark and he was scared. He was gasping and struggling against the wood, his fingers bleeding and he started to cry. I could hear him crying like I was in there with him and I was angry. I tried to yell at him. I tried to yell and tell him what to do. I couldn't, though, my voice silent and I was frozen still and very afraid. I wanted to save him. I wanted to dig him out but I couldn't. Then he cried out. Muffled through the dirt, I heard his little voice, full of terror, "Help! Please!" and I fought against the paralysis of sleep. Then he cried, "Sammy!" He screamed, "Sammy! Help!" but when I looked, Sam was kneeling in the dirt, tears streaming down his cheeks as he dug with his hands.

"Dean!" he called into the earth, his scrawny six year old body unable to do what needed done to save his brother. Hands full of dirt don't mean shit when you're staring at six feet of it and you can hear your brother calling your name and his voice is getting weaker and weaker.

I woke up, shot from the floor to see both boys tangled in the bed. Both sleeping safely, soundly, but i'm covered in sweat. My heart is beating out of my chest and this heaviness is in the air, a menacing chuckle in the dim light of the room.

That was three weeks ago. Two nights back I had the dream again. Exactly the same but this time I didn't wake to both boys crying in fear. I woke up to Sam sobbing, fist beating into the dirt, his face laid against the ground and an eerie silence below him.

Dean had run out of air.

That's why we're out here today. They're both missing school but I don't give a shit. Learning that gazelles live in the Savannah isn't as important as this. Plus, I snagged a pad from the Emergency Room when we had to take Sam in when he sprained his wrist during his ball game last month. That's what the school calls an 'excused absence'.

I've had the boys digging with me all morning. They don't know they're digging a grave but I've shown 'em how to handle the shovels and they're making honest effort at it. Dean's got it down better than Sam, and he don't know it but I've seen him tossing two shovel fulls from Sam's spot for every two he does from his own.

He keeps eyeing the box I nailed together when we first got here. The boys sat on the trunk of the car, eating dry cereal, watching me in silence as I hammered the wooden pieces together.

Dean don't ask questions much anymore. Sam don't ask me.

We've got the hole just deep enough to fit the box and cover it with about three foot of dirt when I set my shovel aside and call time for lunch. Over peanut butter sandwiches and fritos, I watch Dean fret over Sam's hands checking for blisters. Dean doesn't show me his and I don't ask. Boys need rough hands.

"Son," I say, "we are gonna to put you in that box and by tonight, you're gonna know how to get out on your own." Sam looks horrified but Dean just runs his hands down the thighs of his jeans and says, "Okay."

I see him giving Sam a look and his face is so much like Mary, I cough then have to turn away.

I lift the lid off the box and point inside. "It's gonna be tight," I say, Dean by my side, Sam tucked behind him. "And you won't have much air so you gotta stay calm, breathe normal, and do exactly what I say."

"Yes, sir." He nods. He gives a look back at Sam and shakes his arm free of where little Sammy has been clutching at his elbow, then he climbs in the box. He lays down and I think Sam finally has caught on to what's about to happen. He's hovering beside the box, looking terrified, turning his little face from me to Dean like he's asking if we are really gonna do this.

"Sam, help me with the lid."

"Yes, sir." he says but his hands are cautious, his eyes asking Dean if he should. Dean nods and only then does Sam lift his end of the lid. I shake my head.

"Remember, stay calm. Breathe normal." I say as we place the lid. I notice Dean's got his eyes closed.

At first, he's fine. I'm talking to him through the wood and he knows the lid ain't nailed down. I talk him through how to move his arms and body, how to twist out of his shirt and wrap it around his fist.

"Punch when you got it." I say and it takes him a minute and some grunting but he punches the lid, this feeble hit that only rattles the board from where it's sat.

"Alright," I tell him. He's sweaty and unwinding his shirt from his hand. I nod to Sam and he helps me move the lid to the ground. He looks so relieved, I think he must think this is all over. Dean sits up, this grin stretched across his face.

"I did good, Dad?"

"Well, you ain't dead." I say and I watch his smile slide off his face. Boy's gotta lean it ain't about doing good- it's about surviving.

"After you punch through the wood, you're gonna have to hold your breath."  
"Why?" he asks, slipping his shirt back over his head, winding his arms through the sleeves.

"Because you're gonna have dirt falling in on your face and, if you breathe it, you'll choke and die."

"Oh," he says and his shoulders sag. "Wait… what?"

"Lay back" I tell him and he does, giving a tight nod to Sam standing at his feet. We place the lid back and I can see the panic in Sam's eyes when I get the hammer and nails from the trunk of the car.

"Stay calm." I say to Dean, through the wood, as I hammer the first corner down.

"Breathe normal. Punch through and hold your breath." I say, nailing down the second corner.

"Then you tear at the hole till you can fit through it." I say at the third corner.

"Then you gotta move the dirt to your feet, make a cavity for you to move through." I say, nailing down the last corner.

"After that you crawl your way to the top." I hit the lid with my palm.

"Ready?" I ask Sam. He's staring at me like a deer into headlights.

"Dad?" I hear Dean call.

"Yeah?"

"I'm scared." He says, his voice muffled and low.

I'm thinking me, too but I say to him, "Good."

He's been silent in the box as we lower him into the shallow hole but I can hear him rustling the moment it hit the ground.

"Wait!" I call down to him. "Relax! And wait!" I pick up my shovel and look at Sam. He's so young. He looks so small leaning against his shovel, staring down at the box. We're about to bury his brother alive. His face is concern and fear. He's worried. He doesn't trust me and, truthfully, he never has.

"Count," I say as I scoop up a shovelful of earth. "Count slowly. Count to five hundred. Then start." I drop the dirt onto the lid and it's a heavy hollow thump as it hits. I nod at Sam. He's angry now but we both can hear Dean's fingers tapping out a steady rhythm against the side of the box. He's counting.

It doesn't take as long to cover him as it took to dig the hole. As far as I know, he's still down there tapping away. Sam's exhausted, though, and it's hot out. The afternoon sun beating down on us has me sweating.

"Do you want a drink?" I ask Sam but he's plopped down right beside the mound of dirt, arms wrapped around his knees tucked to his chest and his eyes trained at the ground. He shakes his head, the smallest turn from left to right. I walk back to the car, grab a water from the trunk, lean back against the door and watch. There's nothing for the longest and I'm starting to get worried. I can picture Dean down there, wiggling out of his shirt, wrapping it around his fist and trying little punches at the wood above him. Shit, I should have let him practice that up here, first.

It's been way too long when we hear the first muffled cries. I'm propped on the car and Sam says "Dad, he's screaming!" and he's right, I can hear it, just like in the dream, Dean's panicked and is using up his air. "Dad!" Sam yells, turning his little face to me, accusation in every line on his forehead. I watch him, I listen to Dean, and I stay right where I am. Dean's got to figure this out. And so has Sam.

Sam turns away from me, his hands balled into tight little fists. His entire body is tension and hate as he watches the dirt in front of him. Then we hear it, "Help!" muffled through the ground. "Sammy!" That boy didn't listen to a god damned word I said but Sam's shot up, grabs his shovel and is digging, hard and fast. "Sammy!" We hear another muffled scream. As long as I can hear him, I know he's fine. I know I can uncover him quick enough to get him out if he's really in danger. I know these things so I stay back. I let the boys handle this.

Sam's pushing the shovel into the dirt but he's too little to really accomplish much with it. Dean's still screaming, just crying out, really, and we're going to have a serious talk about what keep calm means once he's out. I watch as Sam throws the shovel to the side. He drops to his knees in the dirt and is digging with his hands. I shake my head. He's crying, calling out "Dean! Dean!" using his palms to push the dirt away from the upper part of the mound.

I notice that Dean's gotten quiet. He's too quiet and I'm worried. Sam is still wailing, scooping dirt up by the hand fulls and tossing them aside, screaming and crying but Dean's silent. I'm waiting. I toss my empty water bottle through the back window onto the floor board but I stay put and wait.

Dean's been quiet way too long when Sam screams, but it's triumph. A dirty hand erupts from the hole Sam's dug out and Sam grabs hold and is tugging, trying to pull him up. It takes a moment, Dean must have had to shift around in the box to get his feet under him, then he pushes up, head and torso from the dirt. He's gasping for air and Sam has thrown himself around Dean's shirtless, dirty chest in this sobbing hug. I take a breath. I hadn't even realized I'd been holding it. Dean breathes deep, pulling in air in a way that forces his shoulder back and his chest out, then he lifts his arms and wraps them around Sam.

"It's okay," he says.

"You did great," he says.

"I'm okay," he says.

I notice that his hands are leaving bloodied streaks along Sam's shirt as Dean rubs his brother's back. I see the shirt wrapped around his right hand is saturated with blood.

He finally looks at me, not an ounce of pride on him anywhere, and he asks "I did good, Dad?"

"Well," I say, "you ain't dead."  
But I know we'll be doing this practice again.


End file.
